


Atom Bomb, Baby

by MercuryPilgrim



Series: Atom Bomb, Baby [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, Have this instead, I guarantee there are no sads here, M/M, Mostly Chronological, Not Beta Read, There's too much sadness, They deserve to be happy dammit, collection of oneshots, sad dads club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPilgrim/pseuds/MercuryPilgrim
Summary: "“Hey,” he murmured, walking a little faster to catch up. He had smaller legs, which wasn’t fair. “You gonna tell me your name, or am I going to have to keep calling you ‘Vaultie’ in my head?” He asked, making sure to sound unimpressed. The man grinned, the mop of dark hair under the aviator’s goggles perched rakishly on his head falling in his face, which made MacCready irrationally annoyed for reasons he wasn’t sure of. 
“Name’s Grey.” He said simply, holding out a hand clad in worn leather gloves with the fingers cut off. Mac had never understood why people did that.
“So boss, you on a specific job, or am I just gonna be watching your back while you get your groceries?” He asked, raising a brow that no one could see under his hat."
 
A collection of oneshots that refuse to be too sad, focusing on a smartass Sole Survivor who still has issues, and Robert Joseph 'Too Cute For His Own Good' MacCready, who has more than his share of them too.
They deserve to be happy, dammit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing always ends up being so sad in fics, and I refuse to be sad. So, have some not-so-sad oneshots about my Sole Survivor and MacCready, two smartass nerds in the Wasteland, shooting things and drinking far too much whiskey for guys who should be paying attention to what is shooting back.

MacCready was not in a charitable mood when the man with the blue jumpsuit had leaned against the doorframe and watched him argue with Barnes and Winlock, which is what he would later use as an excuse for his surly introduction. His scowl deepened when the man sauntered over like he owned the place, the heavy, shabby leather duster thrown over the distinctive vault suit and the goggles sitting on top of his head giving him a rakish air.

Later, when they were walking out of the place at his new employer threw a sloppy two fingered salute to Magnolia, who grinned and waved, MacCready was still processing how he had been talked into lowering his fee. Something told him this wasn’t an unusual feeling among those who had the misfortune of ending up in conversation with the Vault Dweller.

“Hey,” he murmured, walking a little faster to catch up. He had smaller legs, which wasn’t fair. “You gonna tell me your name, or am I going to have to keep calling you ‘Vaultie’ in my head?” He asked, making sure to sound unimpressed. The man grinned, the mop of dark hair under his aviator’s goggles falling in his face that made MacCready irrationally annoyed for reasons he wasn’t sure of.  
  
“Name’s Grey.” He said simply, holding out a hand clad in worn leather gloves with the fingers cut off. Mac had never understood why people did that. The name suited him, his eyes being the colour of stone. MacCready nodded and cautiously shook the hand. He couldn’t tell if the name was real or fake. Whatever, he wouldn’t ever use it anyway. “So boss, you on a specific job, or am I just gonna be watching your back while you get your groceries?” He asked, raising a brow that no one could see under his hat.  
  
Grey smirked, not put off in the slightest. “Both. We’re going to go kill some stuff for a Mayor Hancock. Well, I’m not supposed to know it’s him needing the job done, but it is. Don’t tell anyone.” He said, and MacCready was sure he’d talked that information out of some poor sod who hadn’t been intending on divulging it.  
  
“Any specifics on the ‘stuff’?” he asked lightly, adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder. Grey shrugged. “Dunno. Hopefully they have caps and good shit on them though. I get first look, and you can have whatever I don’t need.” He said, flashing MacCready a grin. The merc didn’t smile back.  
  
“Great,” he drawled. “I’ve always wanted to widen my collection of empty beer bottles and desk fans.”

Grey snorted. “Any desk fans are mine actually, but you can have any vodka we find.” He said as they turned a corner and ignored a drunken drifter mumbling at a half-faded mural of a pretty woman. “Can’t stand that shit, tastes like paint stripper.”

MacCready raised his other brow, hoping against hope. “You don’t actually have a desk fan collection, do you?”  
  
“Yeah, I have about twenty now. What can I say? A man needs a hobby.”

MacCready fought the urge to grimace. Do it for the caps, he repeated in his head.

 

* * *

 

MacCready didn’t often like to admit he was wrong, but on this occasion, he was perfectly happy to shout it from the rooftops. Grey wasn’t just odd, he was _weird_.

MacCready watched him pick the lock of a warehouse at a speed that made the merc wince.

“Fuckin’ piece of… god fucking shit, I haven’t done this in years.” His new boss muttered as he jiggled his third bobby pin. There was a click and the man sighed. “Finally.” He grunted.  
  
MacCready stayed quiet, wondering if Grey was the kind of man to shoot him if he mentioned he could have done that twice as fast and with several less decibels of cursing.

He was further surprised when his employer, tall and lean, crouched low to the floor and withdrew a nasty looking combat knife, the blade serrated and razor sharp. Grey flashed him a sharp grin that matched the knife, and proceeded to put it to good use. Any unfortunate Triggermen who weren’t paying enough attention ended up with gaping throats or holes in places it was inadvisable to have holes. Gloved hands covered mouths and settled bodies on the floor with an efficiency MacCready didn’t see often. In truth, MacCready was beginning to wonder what the point of his being there was, when a Triggerman finally spotted the spectre of death in bright blue sneaking up on him, and opened fire with a surprised shout. They threw themselves behind some cover, and Grey glanced over, blood on his hands and knife that dripped to the floor and stained it crimson. “Hey, I think he noticed us!” He called over the sound of bullets hitting the crate he was hunkered down behind. MacCready snarled as he propped his rifle up and let off a few rounds. “You think?” he muttered to himself, and paid attention to the gangsters shooting at them. There was a thunderous boom from his right, and he almost jumped, unprepared for the noise. His new employer was hefting a shotgun at the Triggermen, who seemed much less inclined to stay and fight when a good few of their number were filled with slugs that made exit wounds like a-bomb craters.

There was a way the man handled the weapon that was clean and efficient, and MacCready wondered where he had learned such discipline. He didn’t see it from anyone but the Brotherhood of Steel types, and he had never gotten the inclination to ask them about their training. Grey moved like it was muscle memory, and his face was serious, streaked with trail dust and grime and no sign of the wisecracking annoyance that was paying MacCready’s fee.

He shook his head, and kept on shooting.

 

* * *

 

His employer was, at least, good for dividing up the loot fairly. More than fair, in MacCready’s experience. It was a straight seventy thirty split, and MacCready was more than pleased with his stash of ammo, weapons and chems. He wouldn’t touch the chems himself, but they sold well enough. It wasn’t as though he had never tried them, because he had, it was the idea of not being in control of his own body that made him stay his hand from an otherwise comforting rush of Mex-X or thrill of Jet. Idly thinking on this while lighting a cigarette (the irony utterly lost on him), he glanced at Grey. The man was haggling with Daisy, his own cigarette between long fingers as he leaned on the counter, a crooked, charming grin on his face. He was flirting with the ghoul, who laughed at him and told him to fuck off, but gave him a discount anyway.

MacCready never knew how anyone did that. His people skills often got him shot at, which said something about their effectiveness.

He propped up a wall for a while, listening to the sounds of Goodneighbour, and idly paying attention to Grey chatting with Daisy about something the ghoul wanted help with. When the man finally exited the building, standing a good few inches taller than MacCready, the sun was lower in the sky and it threw his face into sharp relief. Grey wasn’t a conventionally handsome man, not like some of the surviving pre-war posters with swept over hair, a full face and a perfectly gentlemanly smile. Grey was sharp and angular like a hawk, his mop of dark hair the bane of MacCready’s patience, and his grey eyes almost feline in their shrewdness. His grin was crooked and he slouched, and long fingered hands could never stay still. His tanned skin was marred by thin scars that looked old, running over one cheek to bisect his mouth and chin, not deep enough to mangle his face. He gave MacCready a nod.

“You ready, or does that wall still need you to hold it up?” he asked, snarky.

The mercenary looked up from under his hat and flicked the stub of his cigarette away, levering himself up. “Wouldn’t you know, it’s still standing. My purpose is gone.” He drawled, and was rewarded with an inelegant snort.

“Right, it’s getting late. Come on, we need to find somewhere to bunk.” Grey said, looking up. “You alright with Diamond City? They have shops and uh, stuff.”  
  
MacCready blinked. “Didn’t you just sell what you wanted to Daisy?” he asked, and Grey nodded.

“Yeah, but I have some useless shit I want to pawn off to Myrna because I like messing with her.” He admitted. “C’mon, I bet you ten caps she’ll call the city watch on me again for being a synth if I try and sell here these nine toothbrushes.” He grinned, and set off without waiting for an answer.

MacCready stared after him, and tried not to smile. He didn’t trust his employer, not by a long shot, but at least he would be entertained up until he ended up with a knife in his throat.

 

* * *

 

Grey had, in fact, not made it to Diamond City in time to sell his toothbrushes to Myrna, and instead had shown MacCready to a small place he called the Home Plate. MacCready had been sceptical when he had seen the outside, but inside it was positively crammed with things. Grey was clearly a do-it-yourself kind of guy, and it came across in his house, which was overflowing with knickknacks and handmade furniture. There was a string of coloured lights over a tiny kitchen, a rack where mismatched, chipped dishes were left to dry, and a table that looked like it used to belong in a diner. A half open door hinted at another space beyond. MacCready couldn’t help loving it, even though it was messy, mismatched and generally cramped.

Grey sighed and flopped on a battered sofa, flicking his eyes to MacCready. “Nice, yeah?” he grinned. “I conned some friends into helping me with it, otherwise it could have taken me months to make it liveable.” He admitted. “I like it, even if I haven’t managed to hook up a way to get running water. I’m working on that. I got a cot upstairs if you want to sleep by the way. I’m going to make some food.” He stood up, all long legs and arms and MacCready couldn’t help but think that if he looked up the definition of ‘lanky’in a book, Grey’s picture would be there.

MacCready was never one to pass up free food. He followed his employer, taking in everything. “What are you making?” he asked, and Grey shrugged. “Whatever I got that hasn’t gone bad. I’m a shit cook, I’ll warn you.” He flashed a grin and MacCready shrugged. “I’m decent.” He said simply, and instantly regretted his sudden flare of verbal ego. Grey suddenly pressed a battered metal spoon into his hands, and chivvied him towards the kitchen without letting the mercenary think. “You are? Great, you get dinner on then.” he said quickly, smiling. “Use whatever, I don’t care. I’ll be back.” He waved a hand, patted his new employee on the shoulder, and disappeared. MacCready spluttered, holding the spoon like a flag of surrender. “Hey-!” he tried, but Grey was already gone. The merc felt his lip curl, and sighed. “I’m a hired gun, not a hired cook.” He growled under his breath, debating whether to spoil the food on purpose. He was hungry though, and Grey had just given him free reign to use anything. He shrugged. He would get him back somehow, he was sure.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So uh, that's that done. Leave feedback if you like, I would like to see how this is received. If anyone has idea for scenes they would like to see, I would love to hear about them!


End file.
